Monday, July 29, 2013

Tom Jones meets CSN and Y

I saw this when it was first broadcast and thought even then that it was
an inspired mismatch of musical sensibilities. Jones is one of the
greatest white rhythm and blues singers of all time--range, power,
nuance, texture echo Otis Redding, Ray Charles
and Solomon Burke with stunning ease and feeling--but he is incapable
of just standing still and singing the notes.He oversings this
tune--too much melisma on a song requiring a less protective approach is
melodramatic, not dramatic, and can seem silly although it is fun to hear Jones
give an overwrought reading of the warning that the listener ought to
be ready to cut their hair should things get hairy with the Man. The swinging, swank, tight slacks wearing Jones, that guy who has to keep that pelvis in motion regardless of subject matter, mood or prevailing fashion and decor, gets down with The People! Odder things have been aligned, I guess, but not many.
Interesting band reactions as well; David Crosby looks amused and looks to be
suppressing a snicker, while Stills sounds inspired by Jones' gospel
inclinations to be a soul man himself. Neil Young, the only member of CSN&Y of any kind of brilliance, appears thoroughly unamused.

2 comments:

Thanks for posting this GREAT clip, Ted. It’s just about the best one of CSN&Y I’ve ever seen – for once, their performance as a band seems unified and dynamic, rather than a lapful of undigested egotism. And thanks also for initiating a critical conversation about Tom Jones, a hard-to-place figure on the pop landscape who nevertheless made some wonderful and memorable singles back in the day. What’s amazing about Jones is that his florid amalgam of R&B and Vegas was so sturdy and adaptable, as well as the fact that his souped-up lothario persona could seem cartoonish and exciting at the same time. I wonder why it was so essential to Jones to choose goofily melodramatic material that bordered on pure cheese: “It’s Not Unusual,” “What’s New Pussycat,” “Help Yourself,” “Delilah,” “She’s a Lady,” etc. In the hands of anyone else, these crass ditties would seem totally stupid, a parody of leering lounge-smarm. But Jones had the chops and the charisma to make them fun and triumphant. It was a kind of genius, a unique one at that.

I 'm not usually interested in specialty albums, the kind of thing that has Rod Stewart singing the Great American Songbook, but I always hoped that Jones would record and release an album of rhythm and blues classics, with select obscurities thrown in. It would have been a transcendent moment, where this white guy from Wales steps away from the Vegas glitter dome and unleash that magnificently authentic voice on the range of songs it was seemingly intended for. There is something of a freak show about Jones, but that was all stage presence, details rehearsed for the spotlight and the cameras. An album might have made listeners forget the absurd trappings surrounding Jones in the media and concentrate on the bed rock emotion of the songs and the voice that would rasp, wail and soar on their emotional core. That would have been a cool thing. Such moments, though, are the stuff of the perfect world that somehow eluded us.